


Hello Operator

by yesterday4



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8318941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: Because Dean doesn’t want everyone thinking he’s a dead serial killer.  Written in response to the prompt asking, “Did he call anyone else and tell them [that he was still alive]?” (Post Skin)





	

“Going to call anybody?” Sam asks.

Dean, close to dozing off, shakes his head and rubs at his eyes. Gazes out at the dark road, at the familiar sight of pavement whirring by, and then looks at his brother, who is driving.

“Call?” he echoes, waving his hand to indicate that expansion is necessary. 

Sam shrugs and turns pensive eyes on his brother, never a good thing. “Yeah, you know… about your death. Don’t you have anyone you want to fill in? Like, besides the obvious.” 

Dean thinks about it, and then laughs. “Why bother? I hate talking on the phone. Everybody that needs to know knows, or will soon.” 

Right now, only Sam knows. He sighs, loud and put-out, and says, “Don’t you have hordes of women to call? You know, to ease the weeping masses…?” A chortle, and then, “Fuck, knowing you, you’ll at the very least manage to get a little something something out of the call.”

That earns a smirk from Dean. Playfully, he reaches across the bucket seat and punches Sam on the arm. “C’mon, Sammy. I don’t call the ladies, they call me!”

**

Dean calls Cassie first.

Doesn’t really think about it—-obviously it isn’t his fault Sam went and planted the seed. It comes like some sort of sick instinct the second Sam, tired and pissy, heads for one of his girlishly long showers, leaving Dean alone with the telephone and the TV. “The body of Dean Winchester”, the TV is droning. And, “Suspected in the deaths of...”

He has his cell phone in his hand and is dialling before the reporter, drab and not even remotely sexy in beige, can launch into her big spiel about tampered security tapes and blood and gore and crap like that. Rings once, twice, and Dean’s still not even really thinking about it. Then her voicemail kicks in, and the sound of her voice is enough to knock the wind right about of him.

_I’m not available to take your call right now. Please leave a brief message, along with your number, and I will return your call as soon as possible._

Fucking dull voicemail. Practical. Normal, not nuts. He hasn’t heard her voice in years. He doesn’t even know what she’s up to anymore. 

The beep resounds through Dean’s ear, and he doesn’t know what to say. He’s not dead, that’s obvious, but those aren’t the words burning inside his throat. He didn’t do it, that’s what he wants to say. See the ugly shit that happens? The crap Cassie ran away from, and he doesn’t care to tell her he’s alive; doesn’t care past anything beyond a burning indignation that she might actually believe he’s guilty. Might actually believe her decision was justified. 

Hey, baby, dodged a bullet. 

It’s fucked up that he’s even doing this. He hasn’t thought of Cassie in awhile. Wonders what it means that he thought of her first, and hates Sam for a second for the casual idea of making phone calls. But not to Cassie, never to Cassie. And never-—

It occurs to him all at once that he’s having an internal heart to heart without hanging up the fucking phone. He panics, thinking about the good ten seconds of breathing she’s going to find, and then says, “Fuck” by accident. Slams his cell shut and hurls it at the end of the bed like it’s on fire. 

Great.

Dean’s angry when he leans into the pillows behind his back. He listens to the reporter with a distanced sort of resentment, and tries to imagine weathering this storm with Cassie. With anyone. Wonders who, with half a brain, would ever stay; would ever want this. He can't think of anyone who would deserve it.

Smart fucking girl, that Cassie.

He imagines her with a white picket fence and a cutesie little businessman husband. _Honey, I'm home_ and, even though he can't see Cassie baking, he's thinking of pies on window sills and chubby children.

"Families can rest a little easier tonight..." Different station, same crap. "Suspected serial murderer Dean Winchester..."

**

Bitch of it is, Sam won’t stop leaving Dean alone for a few minutes here, a few minutes there. They’re in a diner somewhere between here and nowhere, and Sam has to take a piss, perfectly reasonable after all that sludge passing for coffee they’ve both been guzzling. And there’s a kid, see, two booths over. 

He’s willing to bet the kid’s dad isn’t dead; willing to bet the kid didn’t see his dad die, for that matter. The kid probably hasn’t known one real second of fear, and then…

Dean’s cell phone is burning a hole through his pocket. This time, though, he dials with a purpose.

Andrea doesn’t want to let Dean talk to Lucas, he gets that right away. It’s nothing personal—-he gets that too. She’s perfectly willing to tell him about the progress Lucas has made, and even brings up Dean’s latest incident all on her own. It’s the timing. It’s One More Thing for Lucas, on a long list of things. This guy you liked? Apparently he did some people in, and now he’s dead. Chin up, boy!

“Not going to mention it to him, Andrea,” Dean insists, pushing a cold fry through his pile of ketchup. Give him some credit.

She sighs. “I know that, Dean.” Then, “He already knows. Saw the story on TV. I thought…”

Dean knows what she thought, knows the silence she fears too well, and it sets sourly in his stomach. “What did you tell him?”

“What did I tell him?” A chuckle, even though it’s not funny, not really. “I made something up. I knew it wasn’t you, but I’m a little out of my league here.”

“Did he believe you?” The question comes out in a pitch Dean doesn’t like. Smacks of desperation. “Lucas knows I didn’t do any of that crap, right? Lucas knows I’m not dead?”

Another sigh, and then there’s a huge pause. Finally, just when he can’t take it anymore, “Five minutes, Dean.”

And then Lucas is on the phone, a rushed out, “Hi, Dean” shooting through cell phone towers and sounding like the purest relief. No fear in Lucas’s voice, no recrimination. 

Dean's smile is lame and huge, he just knows it. “Hey, buddy. You keeping yourself out of trouble?”

Dean can practically hear Lucas’s nod. “Yup, no trouble.”

“Well, that’s boring, man. Get yourself into some, huh? Have some good stories for me next time I call.”

A pause for thinking and then, “I got some new soldiers. Mom bought them for me. They’re really cool.”

“Yeah? Did you get a fort set up for them? Every good army needs a fort.”

It continues in this vein for a while. Soldier talk, and disgust over the suggestion of a girlfriend; Dean doesn’t ask if Lucas has made any friends in the weeks since he’s seen him. Does ask how he’s holding up, and is gratified by the simple fact that Lucas can answer. Five minutes turn into ten, and Sam comes back; Dean grabs the bill from the waitress and skirts away from his brother’s questioning eyes.

They’re practically at the fifteen minute mark when Lucas asks, “Did you save them? Mom says that’s what you were doing, helping them like us, and not to believe the TV. Tell me how you saved them, Dean.”

It’s fucked up, right. Hanging out by the candy machine talking to some kid he hardly knows for long enough that his cell phone is starting to feel hot against his ear. It’s fucked up because it’s the first time since it all happened that Dean actually _feels_ innocent.

“I guess I did save them,” he admits, embarrassed. And then, honour bound, “Well, Sam helped.”

**

Hailey rounds out Dean’s circle of phone calls. He guesses he’s just moving backwards through his recent hunts, but he remembers that Hailey got it. That whole family thing. Thinks that if Hailey sees the news, Hailey might think of Sam, and that means something to Dean. That counts.

He blurts out, “I’m not dead” as soon as she answers; doesn’t think to remind her of his acquaintance. 

Turns out she remembers, as if it would be easy for her to forget their history anyway. Just another hunt for him, but her awakening. She sounds surprised that he remembers her.

“Dean Winchester?” she laughs, and there’s relief there. “Thank God. I saw the story. I mean, I know everything isn’t what it seems obviously, but I did wonder. I’m glad you called.”

She doesn’t ask about guilt and innocence. Dean doesn’t think it crosses her mind. 

“How are you holding up?” he asks, kicking off his shoes and reclining in the only comfortable chair in their motel room. “How are your brothers?” 

She surprises him with sass. “Do you always offer this very considerate follow up service?”

“Do you always make out with people you’ve just met?”

She has to think about that; chuckles when she recalls. “That was a kiss on the cheek, mister.”

“You could remedy that, you know. I’m only a few hours drive away. Hop in the car right now and—-”

“So much for calling to let me know you’re not dead! Way to cheapen the moment… again.”

Dean shrugs and stretches his legs, reaching with his feet for the coffee table. And… comfort achieved. There’s a beer within arm’s length and he’s good to go. 

“I’m not booty calling you,” he protests, “but if I was…”

“It isn’t working,” she tells him, but there’s a smile in her voice. “Seriously, Casanova. How are you? How is your brother? And what the hell happened to get you or whatever killed?”

Dean thinks Hailey’s refreshing, straight up simple as that. He thinks about how quickly she believed him and Sam out in the woods, how well she'd held up faced with the Wendigo. Girl had balls, and girl had never once looked at him and said, "You're nuts. You're crazy." In fact, if he remembered correctly, she'd asked about symbols. Swallowed it right up for the sake of her brother. Good little soldier, tough as they came. Well worth the phone call, much less depressing than ex-girlfriends.

Dean doesn’t even particularly care if Sam comes waltzing through the door right now; doesn’t care if he’s going to have to sit through hours of Sam gloating. Dean's done making a big emotional deal out of everything. Cute girl within a few hours’ drive wants to talk about the hunt. Enough fucking said.

He reaches for that beer, takes a swig. Says, “You ever heard anything about Shapeshifters?”

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural is not mine. :)


End file.
